


Never One For Words

by mangochi



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Drinking, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, rare pairings for the win, slight whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:37:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey, doc."</p><p>McCoy glances up briefly, then drops his eyes back down to his paperwork. “What.”</p><p>Scotty plops down in the chair across his desk, leaning forward to sprawl his elbows out over McCoy’s datapads and grin obnoxiously at the edge of his vision. “Heard you fancy yourself a drink now and then.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never One For Words

"Hey, doc."

McCoy glances up briefly, then drops his eyes back down to his paperwork. “What.”

Scotty plops down in the chair across his desk, leaning forward to sprawl his elbows out over McCoy’s datapads and grin obnoxiously at the edge of his vision. “Heard you fancy yourself a drink now and then.”

"Don’t we all?" McCoy answers, deadpan, and picks up another PADD, 

"Mmm, see, I’ve been thinkin’ of settin’ up a little something for the fellows who know a good bottle when they see one." Scotty winks when McCoy looks up again warily. "If you’d be interested."

McCoy shrugs indifferently, but the truth is, he misses the taste of good alcohol. The replicated stuff doesn’t even come close. “Maybe.”

It turns out to be one of the best and worst decisions of his life, he decides the next morning, when he wakes up with a leftover buzz and a monumental headache.

…

It’s another bum mission that ends with Jim in critical care and McCoy tearing his hair out between follow-up surgeries. He doesn’t leave Jim’s bedside until the kid’s stabilized, and Christine’s finally forced to drag him away after he falls asleep standing up, nearly knocking over an equipment cart and giving himself a damn concussion to boot. 

“Get some rest,” she snaps at him, all but propelling him out of medbay. “Have a drink, play some cards, just don’t show your face here for another forty-eight hours.” This is for your own good, her determined expression says. 

McCoy finds it difficult to argue, especially when he can barely string two words together in his exhaustion, but that doesn’t keep him from trying.

“If Jim-”

“Spock’s on his way,” she says, her eyes softening slightly but her voice still steely. “I’ll comm you if there’s a change.” 

It’s a good thing she’s a competent nurse, he thinks grouchily as he staggers off, the corridor swimming before his eyes. More competent than he is, he’s starting to think.

He doesn’t see the bouncing red projectile until it rams into his side and sends him stumbling back against the wall. He hears distant blinking and a flurry of Gaelic curses as he pulls himself back together. “Jesus Chri-“

"Sorry, doc," pants the missile, who McCoy finally identifies as one Montgomery Scott. He’s bent over in the middle of the corridor, scooping up the miscellaneous tools spilled across the floor, and slaps a distracted salute in his direction. "Gotta go."

McCoy grabs the engineer’s arm before he can scramble off again, scowling. “Something on fire?”

"Wassat? No, nothing yet-"

"Arm? Rib? Someone roll down the jeffries again and smash their fool heads open?"

"What’re you on about, doc?" Scotty finally asks, blinking bewilderedly at McCoy. There’s a large grease stain up the side of his face, half his hair sticking straight up in the black gunk, and McCoy frowns at it disapprovingly for a moment before releasing Scotty and crossing his arms.

"What’s the hurry, then? Can’t have you goin’ round bowling people over. Medbay will be flooded with contusions."

He suddenly feels even more exhausted at the thought and steadies himself subtly against the wall.

Scotty’s eyeing him weirdly now, and McCoy doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like weird, doesn’t like Scotty looking at him like that. “You all right, doc?”

"I’m fine." The answer’s a mechanical bark by now, rough and irritable. But out of the entire senior crew, there’s only one Montgomery Scott who can outgrouch him when the situation calls for it.

 The engineer gives a sardonic snort and adopts his own stance, hands on his hips as he gives McCoy a squinty once-over. “You look likely to keel over on the spot.”

"Maybe I will," McCoy says defiantly, and tries not to think about what he just said.

"Well, we can’t have that," Scotty says decisively. He looks at McCoy a little longer, then gives a tiny nod. "All right, come with me."

…

They end up perched on a catwalk over the water tanks, legs hanging over the edge and arms propped over the middle rail.  

"He’s a fucking idiot," McCoy groans, tilting his head back and staring blearily up at the pipes squiggling over the ceiling. The empty space feels tantalizingly dangerous beneath him, and he swings his legs idly as he makes a mental note to double up on Jim’s physicals.

"That he is," Scotty agrees amiably, tipping another good quantity of amber liquid in McCoy’s half-empty glass. "There you go, doc."

"Three broken ribs," McCoy rages. "A punctured lung, hemorrhaging  _everywhere_ -“

"Have some more," Scotty says, and he proceeds to top off McCoy’s glass.

McCoy downs an angry mouthful, shuddering as the burn travels down his throat and settles contentedly in his stomach. “Damn it,” he says feebly, temporarily sated.

"Good, eh?" Scotty’s grinning at him when he looks, and McCoy can’t help but notice how close they’re sitting, shoulders bumping and feet kicking occasionally together. 

"It’ll do," he says decisively, then drinks again.

…

"Never figured you for the clumsy type," Scotty remarks, a few days later. "Bend over."

"Wasn’t my fault," McCoy grumbles. He gingerly lowers his forearms on the back of the chair and waits, jumping a little when the icy cold of the medpatch touches the small of his back. The motion sends another throb of pain up his spine, and he grits his teeth. "Got out of bed wrong."

"Aye, age will do that to you," Scotty says, dropping the rest of the patch onto McCoy’s back and carefully smoothing out the edges. He’s got small hands, McCoy notes distantly. Short fingers and broad palms that brush occasionally over the bare skin around the patch as he pats meticulously at it.

"Pretty sure you’ve got a few years on me." He can smell the sharp scent of the medicine, feel it soaking through his pores and numbing the pain. 

Scotty pauses with his hand still over the patch, and it adds an odd layer of warmth to the tingling cold.

"It’s all in the mind, doc."

…

McCoy’s running down the corridor at full tilt before he even receives the comm. When it comes, he flips it open distractedly as he wheels around a corner, nearly knocking down a couple of red-clad officers as he goes. “What.”

"Bones." It’s Jim, breathless and hoarse, and McCoy swallows an instinctive curse. ”Bones, we need you in the transporter room.”

"I’m coming, I’m coming-" He slams into the lift and punches the button repeatedly. "How bad are you?"

"No, not me. It’s-" Jim’s words are swallowed by voices shouting in the background, a flurry of panic that manages to infect McCoy even though the comm. The call ends abruptly and he resists the urge to pitch his comm against the wall.

His tricorder’s in his hand already when he bulls into the transporter room, shoving aside a wall of crowding crew members. “Outta the way-“

"Bones!" Jim looks up at him, his pale face streaked with red, and McCoy scans him automatically for burns, lacerations, missing limbs-

Then he sees the figure sprawled in front of Jim, the spreading puddle of blood oozing out from beneath Jim’s hands. “Oh, hell no.”

"Nice t’ see you….too….doc," Scotty gasps out, craning his head up to squint blurrily at McCoy. "Aren’t ya a sight for sore eyes."

"Damn it." McCoy drops to his knees and knocks Jim aside, reaching for the medkit at his belt. "What the hell happened?"

"The local wildlife took offense," Jim answers cryptically, and McCoy finally notices that he’s holding his right arm awkwardly against his side.

"Get yourself to medbay, Jim, I’ve got him." When Jim hesitates stubbornly, McCoy gestures at the nearest engineer. "Help the captain, Ensign. Executive order from your CMO." He returns his attention to Scotty as Jim’s carted off by a couple of determined muscleheads in red. "Hang in there, y’hear? You’re gonna be fine."

It’s what he says to all his patients, whether he believes it or not, and the way Scotty smirks feebly at him tells him he’s not buying it one bit.

"Sorry ‘bout this, doc…"

"Stop talking." McCoy comms in for medical backup and concentrates on stopping the blood flow. It’s not too bad, he thinks. He can fix this. He can fix Scotty. God knows he’s fixed Jim up too many times from much worse. 

"Hey….." Scotty gives a wet cough, raising his hand to clutch at McCoy’s wrist. His grasp is weak, bloodstained and fumbling, but it’s warm and McCoy squeezes back without thinking.

"……be okay," Scotty whispers, his mouth twitching into a strained smile, and it almost looks like the expression he gets whenever he reports on his silver lady. "Be okay, doc."

"You better," McCoy answers roughly. The medics arrive then and he lets go of Scotty’s hand when they bend to lift him onto the gurney. The engineer’s eyes are slipping shut, but he watches McCoy until a nurse steps between them. McCoy closes his hand into a fist, and pretends that he can hold in the warmth.

…

The alcohol doesn’t taste as good without Scotty beside him, griping about another hamhanded assistant and gesticulating wildly as his brogue thickens in correlation with the excitement of whatever story he’s on. Somehow, this has become a weekly thing between them, when their shifts line up and they can retire together to the secluded catwalks in the belly of the ship to share Scotty’s homebrew and complain fondly of general affairs.

McCoy drops his head onto the railing and sighs. It’s been two days since Scotty’s surgery- he can still feel the slippery slide of warm blood on gloved hands, hear the rising and falling of various machines, see Scotty’s white face against surgical blues- and even though he knows for a fact now that he’ll be fine, it still hurts to think about it. 

Joining Starfleet’s made him soft.

"Save any for me?" The voice is hoarse, lilting, and McCoy nearly falls over the edge. As it is, he bangs his head accidentally on the railing and staggers back, blinking with watering eyes at the figure at the end of the catwalk. 

"Damn it, man, what are you doing here?" he splutters, clutching at his head.

"Took a page outta Jimmy’s book," Scotty says conspiratorially. "Figured you’d be used to it by now." He’s wearing a pilfered red shirt over his hospital gown, the fabric bunched up and the hem tucked hastily in the waistband of his pants. A small triangle sticks out from his collar, and McCoy finds himself fixated on it as Scotty reaches up to scratch at his neck.

"So….." Scotty draws the word out, shifting his weight and leaning against the rail. "Think I’m going t’fall over now." McCoy blinks and curses, then darts forward when Scotty’s legs finally give out, pitching the man forward.

“ _Idiot_ ,” he grunts, catching Scotty awkwardly so he doesn’t exert pressure on his healing wounds. He ends up with his arm around the engineer’s waist, clutching the back of his shirt, his other hand propped against Scotty’s elbow.

Scotty wheezes painfully, his head tucked beneath McCoy’s jaw as he catches his breath. “Bit harsh, aren’t you? Give a man a few seconds.”

"Sit down," McCoy snaps, shuffling the both of them around. Scotty sits heavily, his fingers still gripped in McCoy’s clothing so that he drags him down as well. They wind up taking up the width of the platform, Scotty propped up against the rail with McCoy kneeling in front of him.

"Sorry ‘bout that." Scotty peers up at him contemplatively. There’s a thin sheen of perspiration on his face from the exertion of dragging his ass down here from medbay, plastering his short hair to his head.

It’s not a true red, McCoy muses. More of a light brown mixed with enough gold to give it a fiery glow. He’s not handsome in the traditional sense, but when his eyes light up and the wrinkles smooth out from his perpetual squint……..

"What are you doing here?" McCoy asks again.

"Imma man of my word, doc. Never leave a drinking buddy behind. And you’re the best I’ve found yet," Scotty answers cheerfully. He drops McCoy’s sleeve, but his hand somehow finds his way to McCoy’s, tracing across the back of his fingers. McCoy jumps, curses himself for doing it, and tries to stay still as Scotty’s hand carefully encircles his wrist.

"There, see, it’s all right," Scotty says, patting the back of his hand like he’s a skittish animal. "I’m just fine. You did a bang up job on me, doc." McCoy exhales and has to remember to breathe in again when Scotty squeezes his hand.

"I’m a hardy bastard." The grin is wide and fleeting across Scotty’s round face. “‘Least, is what my mum always told me."

"Sounds like a charmer," McCoy mutters. Scotty’s all but playing with his hand now, turning it over and tracing over his palm with calloused fingertips. 

"Kinda like you, a little bit." 

"What?"

"All rough and gruff, never hesitated to shout me down for mouthing off." Another quicksilver smile. "But she’s got a heart of gold, that woman."

McCoy stares down at their hands, at the little silver ring on his pinky that Scotty’s currently twisting around and around absently. He can’t think of anything to say, and he senses that Scotty’s finally running out of lines. Neither of them’s ever been good talkers. It’s why they’ve usually always stuck to drinking.

"Listen, doc," Scotty says, and his voice is fast and nervous, a low murmur that’s so accented that McCoy can barely pick out the words. "I was thinking….been thinking, really….you ‘n me, we’re alike. In more ways than one, if you get me."

"I don’t…." McCoy trails off, then shakes his head hard. "I don’t know."

"We’re the old-timers," Scotty goes on plaintively, and McCoy is startled into a huff of amusement. "We stick together, y’know? You’re good for me." His fingers have stopped moving, curled loosely around McCoy’s palm. "An’ I think I’m good for you, too. Could be, will be." 

"What," McCoy says slowly, "are you asking?"

"I like you, doc," Scotty says simply, and something in McCoy’s chest quivers and falters to a halt. "I like you a lot. But you’re just too damn tall for me to kiss and woo into my lap jus’ like that, so here’s me asking you out for dinner like a gentleman instead. If, y’know, you don’t mind me bringing Keenser along, he’s a right little bugger about such things when he gets it into that knobby head o’ his-"

"Okay," McCoy hears himself answer, hoarse and unsteady, and Scotty’s mouth snaps shuts, his eyes widening almost comically. 

"You-"

"Said all right, didn’t I?" McCoy mumbles, feeling a flush rising in his ears. "Don’t be making a scene outta it."

"C’mere," Scotty says suddenly, and McCoy’s eyebrows rise automatically. "C’mon, doc, you’re too tall for this, like I said." He scoots forward and grips the back of McCoy’s neck, pulling him forward. Scotty’s lips are dry, his skin scratchy with stubble, but somehow his kisses are softer than McCoy’s allowed himself to imagine over these past few weeks.

A man could get used to this, he thinks, and then he stops thinking altogether.

 


End file.
